


Lessons in Etiquette

by Fudgyokra



Series: Limits [3]
Category: Green Arrow (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Humor, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Facials, Father/Son Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rimming, mentioned BruDick, side RoyDick and DinahOllie, the fine art of foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-04 12:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18343679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Ollie teaches Roy how to set the mood.





	Lessons in Etiquette

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am with more OllieRoy, this time with a pinch of angst!

Roy hated being ignored. It had been four days since the incident in the games room, and Oliver hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction for the entirety of them, putting him in a sourer mood than usual. Sometimes he wondered if the man truly thought skirting the issue was a good idea, instead of one that did nothing but push them further apart. Leave it to him to get the wires crossed between helpful responses and stubborn self-preservation.

He should have known, really. Should have seen it coming from a mile away. Ollie was no good at emotional transparency and what had occurred between them gave Roy a hell of a lot more questions than answers, adding fuel to an already confusing, frustrating fire.

There were probably more proper ways of resolving the boiling tension than by scurrying away to complain to Dick, but with the spilling of a secret so intimate came, at least, a little reprieve. God bless Grayson, they all say, and he was inclined to agree after an all-night lockdown in the boy’s bedroom, a first of sorts for each of them—followed by seconds, and thirds, and so many vivid mental snapshots of exactly how the Boy Wonder looked all overstimulated and panting and  _ begging  _ for it.

At least when he went home, he was smiling again.

It lasted all of sixty seconds, because the instant he made it through the foyer into the kitchen, still grimy from Ollie and Dinah’s date-night dinner the previous evening, he heard a voice that grated on his nerves before the first uttered syllable even registered as a word: “You sure look happy, champ.”

Roy’s smile tightened first into a line, then into a full scowl when Ollie’s gaze hooked on his mouth before travelling leisurely up to his eyes. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” he asked, after his initial greeting went ignored.

Remaining steadfastly silent was his best hope of maintaining his composure, so, dutifully, Roy passed through the archway and tugged open the fridge, completely ignoring Oliver until it became impossible to. The weight of the man approaching behind him was imposing without touching, and just the suggestion of the space between them and what would happen with the lack of it sent an unbidden thrill along Roy’s spine.

“Back off,” he snapped, closing a fist around a water bottle and snatching it from the shelf as if it had personally done him harm. He hoped the way he slammed the door said enough about how he’d like to be left alone.

To Oliver’s meager credit, he backed up a couple steps, palms open in surrender. “Sorry to ruin the mood,” he said, sounding wholly unapologetic. If anything, he was amused, and that was ten times worse. Roy felt his jaw tighten instinctively. “I’m only curious. Haven’t seen you grin that big since landing your first shot through a bird mid-flight.”

“You weren’t there for my first,” he spit, ignoring the way it sounded aloud. Bitter. Resentful.

“You know what I mean,” Oliver returned, pleasant as ever.

Roy did know. The first shot launched from Green Arrow’s bow, before Speedy ever even got his own. The first one that felt like a victory, with a pat on the back to congratulate him. Better than any man Ollie’d ever seen.

Right. Despite himself, his scowl lessened at the memory, a testament to bad timing and his warped sense of childhood wonder. Nostalgia danced around the edges of it, softening his next words into something mildly annoyed instead of the bitter little beasts he’d planned for. “I don’t have time to play happy father-son memories with you, Oliver,” he said, cracking open the bottle in his hands. He tried, and failed, not to think about the sound of a beer hissing open between Ollie’s expert fingers. That would only lead, invariably, to memories of a different kind.

“Ouch,” Oliver replied, and Roy hated him for pretending to be offended. The desire to push him to the point of anger, to the point of something besides smug indifference rooted in him somewhere deep and dark. Beneath that, something darker: the desire to be on the receiving end of that anger, twisted in the sheets, held down and—

“Save the charm for Dinah. She seemed to appreciate it this morning.” The words were out before Roy even realized he’d been thinking them, but once they breached the air, everything around them tensed. He saw Ollie’s face change almost as if it were in slow motion; the smile lines around his mouth twitched and lessened with his frown, the teasing light in his eyes swept away by something defensive and cold.

“I would hope so, considering she’s my fiancée,” Ollie said, no hint in his voice of the emotion laid bare on his face. In fact, it could have been delivered with a full grin and Roy didn’t think anyone listening would have been able to tell the difference.

He thought of that morning, after the long days of pining. Of sliding his hand into his pajama bottoms and biting his lip bloody hoping for a chance to redeem himself beneath the calloused planes of Ollie’s hands and then—and then he heard them going at it in the next room like goddamn rabbits and tried hard not to feel like at least some of the sounds were for his own benefit. As if Oliver were saying “Hey, I know how bad you want to be her, but I don’t have to look at you twice because I’ve got something  _ better _ ” and just the thought of it sent spikes of jealousy and self-hatred straight to his chest.

Finally, he tamped down the rising burn and spat, “Yeah, I’m aware. She’s the love of your fuckin’ life.” He pushed past the man and tried to build a dam around the words that wanted out.  _ So what does that make me? _ He wasn’t sure he’d like the answer.

Ollie sighed, and that was a bad enough sign before he grabbed Roy’s arm and wheeled him around like he weighed nothing. “Don’t do that to me, Roy.”

And, damn it all, the way he said his name made Roy’s shoulders lift with tension. In the same instant, a hand slid over one of them and gripped hard, fingers digging into the knotted muscle with a kind of delicious pressure that dragged a frustrated noise from somewhere inside him.

Ollie’s lips curled upward at the corners, and, of course, Roy was looking.

“Never mind the, uh, business you heard this morning—”

He almost laughed a little deliriously. “As if anything could ruin the day I’ve had, old man.” He ducked out from under the man’s touch at the arrival of his free hand, beseeching and probably well-to-do when it came to unraveling Roy from the very fabric of his sane mind.

“Oh,” Oliver said, like he’d only just recognized the gleam in his mentee’s eye. His grin couldn’t be missed from space, and Roy would have laughed at that, too, if it weren’t for the next words out of his mouth being “I hope you developed good habits.”

And, like the sucker he was, he chewed his lip, glanced around the kitchen, and looked back at Ollie. “Like what?”

“Come on, you don’t expect me to believe you just went all in right away, do you?”

Roy blinked, and Ollie snorted, prompting a rise of chagrin to flush his cheeks. Indignantly, he replied, “What was I supposed to do, run him a rose petal bath? Jesus.”

Oliver tutted and swung an arm around his shoulders, locking him in a commandeering grip before he steered him toward the bedroom. Immediately, Roy’s faculties rose to the occasion against his logical brain’s reasoning; within seconds, as it always seemed to be, he was single-mindedly primed for whatever the man could dream up, whether that be bending him over the bed or throwing him against the wall.

As it stood, talking his ear off about Dick wasn’t one of the fantasies Roy had been entertaining.

He sat at the edge of Oliver’s mussed bed, hands curled anxiously in the sheets, listening to him drone on about etiquette and safety and tried not to doze off or, worse, think about what he and Dinah had been doing in this very bed just hours prior. Finally, right when he thought his exhaustion was bound to take him, hands settled squarely on his parted thighs and shocked him right out of his daydream.

“Got any ideas what that might look like?” Oliver asked, and Roy blanked with what must have been visible confusion, because the man rolled his eyes and repeated, “Good foreplay.”

The words stirred something in his gut, prompting parts of him to stand at attention that surely couldn’t be missed, especially thanks to the creasing of the fabric barely two inches away from Oliver’s fingertips. “Fuck if I know,” was apparently not the right answer, because the instant the words were out of his mouth, Ollie shoved him back on the bed with a hand on his chest and lifted his own knee to the mattress to halfway box him in. If the tent in his jeans wasn’t painfully obvious before, it sure was now.

He hoped the parting of his lips looked more like a concentrated effort to speak and not an obvious gape. “If you’re planning on getting friendly with your fingers again, I suggest—” The words were handily cut off by insistent shushing and the downward pull of Roy’s zipper with a sound much too loud for the confined room. “Hey,” he began, already sounded winded while he watched his jeans get tugged beneath his hipbones, “this is a little, ah, uncouth, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Ollie answered, right before curling his hand around him and turning the slight part to his lips into a wide ‘o.’ “I don’t suppose you got him on his knees.”

Roy’s face colored darkly at the implication. “I don’t ask for specifics about yours and Dinah’s sex life.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Take it as a ‘sure, for a couple minutes.’ We were kind of in a hurry, in case you didn’t catch that part.”

“I did. That’s why I’m here, kiddo.” Before Roy could protest the nickname, Ollie shook the rug out from under him, as he tended to do, with a completely unbothered, “Now be sweet for daddy and turn over.”

For a few seconds, he swore he heard radio static. He looked down while Ollie knelt beside the bed and crouched between Roy’s knees, and the first coherent thought voiced itself with a shameful bit of squeak: “Turn  _ over? _ ” He could have died of embarrassment if it weren’t for Ollie’s hot breath fanning over his cock being the one tether he had to the living world. “What sense does that make for a blowjob?”

For once, a right answer. Oliver’s eyes lit up with something familiar and mischievous, and whatever it was it enticed Roy to clumsily kick his jeans the rest of the way off and turn around. He didn’t know what he expected once he faced the far wall, but it wasn’t to have his hips dragged up and his front half pushed down into the sheets. Even more startling was the ghost of cold air insinuating itself in unfamiliar places as Ollie prised him open with his thumbs and made the flush in his cheeks burn brighter.

He tried to lift himself onto his elbows and glare, but found one large hand pressed against the back of his head, fingers leisurely twining into his hair until the need to breathe forced his nose and mouth out of the sheets. Handily, Oliver’s fingers tightened into a fist, holding him there by the hair. It shouldn’t have made his hips jerk, considering how often the criminals he fought made mad grabs for it, but, as with a lot of things, Oliver’s authority overrode any mite of sanity left in Roy’s body.

“Be a good boy and stay still.” Not a question. They weren’t playing coy this time, then. Another thrill, white-hot, raced up Roy’s spine.  _ Shit,  _ Oliver was good at that. To the point where, when the hand left his hair, Roy remained still as if some phantom force held him there, arms tucked beneath him, hands gathered into fists, with his head hanging over them, hair curtaining his face as he stared intently at the covers and nothing else.

Until he felt Oliver’s thumbs hook along his rim, and then hot breath close to the puckered skin there. Too close. _ Way  _ too close.

He jerked instinctively, peering over his shoulder with a look that was equal parts incredulous and pathetically embarrassed. “Ollie—” he began, voice a warning.

“I always figured you’d be on  _ bottom  _ between you and the Bat’s boy, but I guess I was wrong.”

Something about that shut him right up, face burning, because he never thought something like that would ever give him away. The fact that Oliver could  _ see  _ was somehow more humiliating than the idea of him knowing in the first place. He thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, but he was beginning to learn fast that that was never the case with his mentor, who said, in a sickeningly appreciative voice, dripping honey, “You want daddy to pop your cherry, huh? Is that it, baby?”

The tightening sensation welled up again, like warmth pooling through his body in a slow, lazy wave. It hadn’t been like that with Dick, who—albeit pretty and willing and certain to fuel Roy’s masturbation fodder for the next, well, forever—wasn’t the pinnacle of his sexual preferences in the same way Roy wasn’t Dick’s.

It had been a long afternoon, talking about themselves. And Oliver. And  _ Bruce. _ The things that led them into post-coital awkward silence weren’t exactly secrets, but to say out loud that his mentor had bent him over a pinball machine—and no, not like that—but yes—with just his  _ fingers _ —and to watch Dick’s pupils blow and his mouth drop open in something like envious wonder suddenly had things between them making a lot more sense.

Amid his remembering, he hadn’t realized the only answer he’d given to the question was shallow puffs of breath rolling across his knuckles, but it seemed to be good enough for Oliver, who chuckled fondly and then loosed the one remaining iota of self-control Roy had by teasing the tip of his tongue against where his thumb met Roy’s flushed skin.

Almost instantly, he groaned, burying his burning face into the bed both in an effort to regain his bearings and to muffle his noises. As far as he could tell, the action seemed helpful to neither end.

He felt as though he were drifting right out of his head with the tentative probing that soon became broad strokes and undulations, and in addition to the quivering of his limbs, he was fairly certain he hadn’t stopped moaning into the sheets the entire time.

A collision of new sensations hit all in a row: First, the wet warmth encouraging him open, and then the shock of a tongue pressing inside, mingling with the bristling of beard hairs rubbing him near-raw. Despite how he’d always assumed it unpleasant, his body gave under the scratch of Ollie’s beard and the lazy way he worked him open with his tongue, and it took every ounce of willpower left for him to mutter a watery, “Wait, stop,” against his knuckles before he came just like that. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of their last performance; he’d been aching for  _ hours  _ after that.

Being the bastard he was, Oliver stopped, but only long enough to sink his thumbs further inside the boy, hooking him open and dragging another crumpled groan from him for his efforts. Roy felt the way he fluttered uncontrollably around the intrusion, and it felt more intimate than he’d ever expected sex with Ollie—or anyone, really—to be like. Being watched made his skin crawl, but in the same vein he wasn’t complaining about such a skillful tongue. Better still, it shut the man up for longer than Roy had ever experienced, which was a victory in and of itself. As if to prove the very point, Ollie said, with a measure of satisfaction, “Don’t tell me you’re already eager for something more.”

“I’m not eager for anything, you fucking— _ ggh! _ ” His insult caught in his throat at the graze of  _ teeth  _ along his perineum, coupled with the tug of a hand first on his balls and then along his shaft, up to the dripping head and then denying him the friction where he sought it most. It was enough to get him to jerk his hips again, trying to drive himself into the loose curl of Ollie’s fist like the frustrated teenager he was. Damn the man, he thought again, for doing this to him.

It felt impossibly good to feel that wet heat back on him, and he didn’t realize exactly how wound up he’d gotten until he found himself rocking back against the man’s face, near to riding it for all intents and purposes. Large hands held his thighs and pressed into the flesh there, keeping him spread and docile while that sinful mouth traveled down along his balls, sucking and licking and nipping once, which was far more than enough to force a wounded whine out of Roy’s lungs.

“See?” Oliver asked, offering no preliminary question before he worked two fingers inside Roy with practically no resistance. “Don’t skip the foreplay, kid.”

“Yeah, fine,” he grunted, still rocking his hips back minutely, even as he finally picked his head out of the sheets and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the tip.”

“I’m sure he would,” Oliver said, and the humor in his voice made Roy reconsider his word choice with a groan, this time of aggravation.

“The—the  _ advice, _ ” he amended, scrambling for purchase at the stretch of another two fingers, only to whine again when Oliver fanned them. He felt impossibly full with that alone, and the suggestion of a thumb pressing curiously against his rim where he was stuffed full made him hiss a staunch, “Don’t you dare,” that had Ollie snorting a laugh.

“You could take it, couldn’t you?” he teased, low enough to make Roy’s head feel fuzzy. “We didn’t really get a chance last time to see what you’re really made of, eh?”

Roy disagreed. Three orgasms and a near-wipeout on the games room floor seemed like his limit, for sure. Still, he said nothing, unwilling to fall for the prodding until all movement stilled and the fingers withdrew, leaving him empty and, new to the sensation, painfully  _ craving. _

“All right, over,” Ollie demanded, and Roy had to recalibrate to understand the words.

With more shaking to his limbs than he would have liked to exhibit, he slowly rolled onto his back again, hair splayed wildly in the sheets and face flushed nearly as red. The longer he was appraised, the more exposed he felt, and despite what they’d just done, he lifted his dangling calves and scooted himself back across the mattress to cover himself, scowling all the while.

“I got another lesson for you,” the man insisted, and the idea stoked the fire in Roy’s belly again, turning the omnipresent ache of want into a desirous burn all over again. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was beginning to get desperate. “Since you seem so willing,” Ollie added, smugly.

Roy was on the cusp of giving him the middle finger when Oliver unbuttoned his jeans and pulled the zipper apart with a rasping sound that made his pupils blow with a sudden, fierce  _ want. _ It occurred to him, then, how handily the foreplay actually worked, because suddenly all he could think of was how badly he wanted to spread for the man, feel him carve his way inside until Roy was dizzy with it.

And then he was told, “Get on your knees, on the floor,” and his brain fizzled out once more.

“What am I, your whore?” he snapped, face hot. Out of all the responses he expected, the one he got was not among them.

“If that’s what you want, baby.”

His hope that he didn’t look shell-shocked was probably moot, but that didn’t stop him from grating out a harsh, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oliver’s grin, charming as it was, made Roy feel peculiarly like a rat caught in a trap. “If you want to be daddy’s little whore, I’m not stopping you. You can let it all out, I’ll take care of you.”

Something clicked, faintly. Whatever it was, he couldn’t put a name to it, but all he knew was that one moment he was glaring the man down, and the next he was shoving himself off the edge of the mattress and down to his knees in the plush carpet, feeling the fibers dig into bare skin. Before him, Ollie pushed the fabric of his jeans down, with nothing beneath to impede how his cock sprung free from behind the denim and presented with a flourish centimeters from Roy’s mouth.

He might have drooled a little, but he tried to conceal it with a careful clearing of his throat. It occurred to him that this was the first time he’d actually ever seen this part of his mentor, despite the fooling around they’d done days prior, much to the satisfaction of his various fantasies. Even after all that, he never imagined he’d end up here. It felt almost like a gift, to be given the opportunity to tentatively dart his tongue out at the head, taste the sharp burst of flavor so different from Dick’s that it made his head spin.

Not that he’d admit it in a million years, but Oliver might have been onto something with the bit about Roy’s desperation for it. Whatever it took to get the attention he’d been craving, bone-deep, for months—for years, even—he would do it, if Ollie asked.

Better, he didn’t have to be asked. With a kind of determination he usually reserved for field work, he closed his fist around the base and his lips around the head, giving a peremptory suck that had Ollie hissing through his teeth in a way Roy rather liked, and so he did it again.

He wasn’t a regular when it came to the things he’d done with Oliver or Dick today, but this part was easy. Not a pleasant story, by any means, but Roy had blown his fair share of men and he wasn’t about to let the talent gather dust in his metaphorical closet. If it weren’t for the cock jammed between his teeth, he might have laughed at his own private joke.

The impetus was lost when he swallowed easily around the man, earning an impassioned curse and a hand at the nape of his neck to guide where he didn’t need guidance. He was loath to say he felt like he might have been glowing for the praise.

“Shit, you’re good at this—” Ollie said, like it surprised him. The honesty shook Roy down to the core, lit up the desire to please until it became the only coherent thought he had left. That was probably a subject he would have to tackle another day, but for now all he did was aim a long-lashed gaze up at him and swallow again, watching him watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as the intrusion flexed the muscles of his throat obscenely. “ _ Shit, _ ” Ollie repeated, grasping harder now, fingertips trailing into Roy’s hair, “I guess this part of the lesson wasn’t—ah—necessary.”

It felt good to finally be the one to catch the other unawares. Everything Oliver did, he did with style and the element of surprise. To have him groaning softly under Roy’s persistent ministrations felt like a victory, even when two hands gathered his hair and forced his head back and forth along the length of him. Especially then.

Drooling, he glanced up again, resisting the urge to touch himself if only to attract more praise. Somehow, as if they were finally on the same page for the first time in this bizarre life of theirs, Oliver delivered with another low, throaty moan. “You’re so good for me, baby,” he crooned, and for a spark of a second Roy felt like he deserved it. “You want to touch yourself so badly, don’t you? Want to come from sucking daddy’s cock?”

He felt more than heard the rumbling groan build in his chest; for a second his eyes fluttered closed, and by the time he reopened them he didn’t even realize he was already stroking himself, feeling the pressure build before it occurred to him that he  _ could  _ finish—that he didn’t have to wait for Oliver and yet felt that he  _ should. _

It’d make him a good boy, wouldn’t it? A proper little whore.

Something in him burned bright, to the tune of another muffled noise past the cock in his mouth, around which he drooled pathetically. Painfully, he tightened his hand around himself, holding still, barring the miniscule twitches of his hips as they searched desperately for release. Between his legs he felt the spit-slicked muscles of Ollie’s prior attentions flutter around nothing, primed to take with a kind of greed that made him desperate to have the man somewhere besides down his throat. Still, he kept on, blindly now, listening to the satisfied grunts and pants that held the promise of reward for his efforts. Efforts to please daddy, and, again, wasn’t he such a good boy?

“You look so sweet for me like that, you know?” Oliver breathed, smoothing a hand down Roy’s kinked waves with a kind of appreciation that made his heart flutter and then burn with some unnamed emotion. “Why don’t you reward yourself?”

At first, he didn’t understand. Then, pointedly, Ollie nudged the toe of his boot between Roy’s knees and watched them part obediently. Dizzily, he freed his other hand from where it’d twisted into the fabric of the other’s shirt and reached shakily behind himself. A breath of pause, then two. His back arched violently at the press of his own fingers inside himself, to the point where he released Ollie with a pop of broken suction and a sharp, desperate little cry he’d deny later.

He’d probably deny all of it later, if he were being honest, but for now he reveled in it: The way Oliver looked at him with that fond, doting smile, until his lips parted with heated breath and he jerked himself to completion all across Roy’s face. His tongue lolled to catch what he could with a kind of blind abandon that he’d  _ definitely  _ later add to his list of things to pretend hadn’t happened.

The instant he let go of his cock and fisted his newly-freed hand in the sheets over his shoulder, he came with a shout, tossing his head back onto the edge of the mattress with a couple aborted thrusts of his hips until all sensation converged into a shuddering whine and bodily trembling.

He was surprised he didn’t black out, considering he was so unaware of his surroundings when he reopened his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t even realize Ollie had gone to fetch a washcloth to clean him up with. He had already pulled himself together enough for presentation, too, but Roy noted the flush in his face and the way his pupils nearly eclipsed the hazel he would have memorized every fleck of, given the chance.

Dumbly, he took the rag and tried to stand on doe legs, ending, as one could reasonably expect, with him collapsing directly into strong, awaiting arms. “Well,” Ollie said pleasantly, “try showing your little boyfriend that brand of foreplay.”

With a bleary grin and a floating sensation in his head, Roy replied, “Shut  _ up. _ ”


End file.
